We have things oft sent that fright us, And regard them all with scorn, Pieces too that oft delight us, And our breasts with rapture warm! For the _first_――why we reject ’em Or affront our readers sense, For the _second_――we accept ’em, Or we drive Subscribers hence! Do not then too harsly judge us, When we cast your trash aside; Or of feelings good begrudge us The exercise, both broad and wide! We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us, And to each give merit due; Full as honest――though you flout us, As the mass of STOCKINGS BLUE! _The Monthly Belle Assemblée._ September, 1836. ―――― SONG FOR THE DOUCHE. Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean, Neptune’s is an easy couch, Listen while a fellow patient Sings the dangers of the Douche; Stripped and shivering――quite defenceless―― Stunned by its terrific roar―― Now you’re shouting――now you’re senseless―― Now you’re dashed upon the floor. Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,―― “Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;” Still in vain for mercy calling,―― “Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.” Now ’tis over, rub and dress you; Now the nerves are in full play, “Bathman I’m all glowing――bless you, Can’t I have one every day?” Now all you in sick beds lying, Victims to each false alarm; Pill and potion vainly trying Only doing further harm. Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors Are but fancies of the brain, They must smile at vulgar errors, Who would health and strength regain. Would you climb the rugged mountain, Would you hear sweet warblers sing, Come and taste the crystal fountain,―― Nature’s pure life-giving spring; Breathe the tainted air no longer, Leave your sickly painful couch, Every bath shall make you stronger, Nervous sufferers try the Douche. From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.) ――――:o:―――― “POLY.” (A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos of the “Polyphemus.”) Do you want to know the ugliest craft That ever put from port? Well that’s the _Poly_, the steel ram’d _Poly_, And she’s a rare rum sort. Open your peepers and look my lads, She’s lobbing agen the quay, The sootiest craft afore and abaft That ever shamed the sea. Afloat, afloat, d’ye call _her_ a boat? Black deck, no white sails furled! _Poly_, grim _Poly_, Tame as “loblolly,’ The ugliest craft in the world!